Words to Action
by DannyPhantomOfTheAvatar
Summary: Alcohol, a substance commonly seen in... Car accidents, party people, beer pubs... Watson, a man waking up in/next to... not his bed, not his right mind, definitely Sherlock. (My first Sherlock Fanfiction ever)
1. The Deaf Murderer

The End

As I can conclude, people get drunk. With that, you can dissolve the simple fact that, when you are drunk, you are vulnerable to your minds own idiotic choices. _That _is what I am referring to, here. It was an awkward night. A night that I secretly wish to never forget, which I haven't the slightest clue why.

I stick by my nonesense, nevertheless.

If you are reading this, a thing I hope isn't true because this is my own personal journal, then you can see I am beginning to type like him. You don't even want to hear my words. It is because of Sherlock this all started. He believes it was my own stupidity, but I claim his ego stood on a pedastal that night.

I am rambling, aren't I? I best be getting to bed. Or rather, the couch. Nothing is simple anymore, not a thing could turn back to how it was. But I guess that is for the best.

-JW

* * *

The Beginning

"You are mad." Sherlock states, pacing five good steps in front of Watson.

"No. No! I am used to falling down a stairwell you pushed me down!" John was being sarcastic, and Holmes caught this. "There were bullets, Watson! Coming for you head. I saved you!" He cocks his head back, getting a sly grinning look at John in before looking ahead. "Also, you must not deny that you are used to being beaten up a bit. After all our adventures."

John halted his steps to ponder that statement, then quickly caught up. "That isn't... True."

Holmes cracks a laugh, "You hesitate. That tells me otherwise." Watson cracked a hit at his shoulder, forcing Sherlock to give his attention. "Um, excuse me? On a case here. Chasing a deaf guy with good gun aiming?" His face was waiting itself to just continue their light jog to the Grand Hotel's basement. John rolls his eyes, "Fine, you're right. Let us be on our way." His arm barely had time to pave the direction of their running before Holmes darts in a mad dash.

"Bloody me." He hisses, holding his leg with one arm while following behind. Still mad about the staircase issue. It was only eight thirty in the morning, giving way for a long day.

Luckily, before both knew it, the case was solved. Unluckily, however, the deaf guy who is great with a gun is also good with a knife. Somewhere between putting one handcuff on the left hand and the other on the right hand, he had dug his pocketknife in a certain someone's shoulder.

It was a shock to everyone. The man who has a plan every waking second, couldn't dodge such a simple obstacle. He was frozen in place for the longest minute in John Watson's experience. Sherlock stood there, staring at the man who couldn't hear the crunch and gush of flesh. It was torture, and not in any horrible pain wrenching way. No, it left Holmes with this deep feeling of losing.

And he never lost. Watson threw the criminal to the ground, screaming obsceneries despite their lack of meaning, and he bashed the man's head down on the cold ground so many times, he knew it couldn't be legal.

The team cleaned up though. The police had just reached sight, so the wait for the ambulance was not logical. John forced the paler than usual Sherlock into a police car and they drove to the hospital directly. It was a sight that brought many a memory of his own shoulder wound from the war. He couldn't focus on Sherlock's face, only the blood pooling on Holmes's pants.

"Here." Watson finally said, gently tugging away Sherlock's overcoat and scarf. The man in pain sat forward, his face plastered with nothing but calmness. You could hear him screaming inside. But the coat was soon shed. John unbuttoned the white dress shirt just enough so he could stretch it from the wound. The fabric was interwoven with the flesh their, but he managed to free it.

Worse things have happened, but it doesn't take away from the fact that this was a bad situation.

Soon enough, Watson was sitting beside Sherlock who was laying down at the lab. Their lab. Surgery was fast and only a signature locked Holmes inside the hospital. Two hourse later, they made way for the lab where Molly Hooper arrived just in time.

For the first time since the accident, Sherlock spoke. "Did you bring them?" A silent nod from Molly as she hands a suspicous bag to him. Watson furrows his brow, "And what exactly did you bring?"

She just looked at John, then turned all attention to Sherlock who was laying on an examination table. A table only the dead would dare lay on. "Cigarrettes. That won't be a problem, correct?" A dissaproving shake of the head rose from John. "Then what do you prescribe? _Doctor_?"

Molly searches her pocket once she sees Sherlock holding aloft an unlit shag. She pulls out a lighter, holding it out in between the two _eyeball feuding _men. Watson stares, "I was just mistaken of your opinion. The one where you swore smoking was bad for brain function? You have a full pack there, and I know if you let yourself have one..."

Molly chimes in, "-He'd want another." She flicks off the lighter and leans back. Sherlock lets out an aggravated sigh, leaning his head back while propped on his elbows. "Then can I have a drink?" Such a simple question. John sigh's also, putting a friendly arm up to grapple Holmes's leg. "Yeah."

The touch startles Sherlock, and he looks up. He lets out a groan of panicked pain, it's clear the sudden movement jerked his shoulder. His elbow slips and he falls flat to his back. "Ah! Oh, Watson. M- Maybe we could spring for a pub?" He's laughing, oddly enough, and holding his good arm over his forehead.

John and Molly, who migrated to a hover over the man let out a noise of relief. "I'll get a cab." John grins.


	2. Fake Blonde, Buisiness Man, and a Model

The cab ride is brief. And silent. Molly, being the _outgoing _person she is, decided upon herself to squeeze in the cab right in between the two guys. It was a tight fit, but a fit.

The pub immediately sent Sherlock's senses wild, the moment he opened the door. John nearly bolted at him, "We, I mean you, are not solving anything tonight. Remember?" The tall man nodded, rolling his eyes and letting his feet take him wherever they pleased. And they pleased a small, two person table with just enough room for his colleague.

Molly walked behind the men religiously, holding her handbag close to her body. When John finally sat with Sherlock, she stopped at the table, huffing a bit in an aggravated groan. "I know I am not exactly, wanted, here... But." She fumbled over her words, and choked on them completely when Holmes lifted his hand and grabbed hers.

"Tea? The little diner in the plaza? Before you work, first thing Monday." His voice was a dull roar in her ears, and she all but fainted. "_You _are asking _me_ now?" She chirped.

John was looking away, eyeing the odd waitress coming into their view. Well, waitress was a stretch. Maybe, bar slut with nurse shoes, would fit the bill. His gaze flickered back to Molly, but she wasn't there. "Sherlock, did you ask her on a date?" He asked more wonderously than questionably. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, still tinging a bit inside from the shoulder pain, "Why? Are you stunned?"

"Stunned is an understatement. You, of all asexuals out there, are going out with someone." Watson boasted. Sherlock barely got a syllable before the waitress, no excuse me, bar slut approached. She slewed a smile not acceptable for day time. "Does the happy couple want something fruity?"

Like always, John nearly jumped out of his chair with, "We aren't a couple." But the grotesque woman disagreed, "Oh, pardon me. First dates are always awkward." She wrote something down in her stratch pad and gave a look to Sherlock.

He held protectively to his injured arm and shoulder. "I'll have the fruity drink, and my colleague will take a beer." Her eyes looked over to John, with an '_I told you so_' expression then walked off. Watson hit his hand lightly on the table, "Why did you order that? Seriously, after all the utter crap we take." His seriousness turned into a smile, then a chuckle.

Holmes joined, "Oh, like you really hate being associated with me. Being thought of as gay is the least of your problems, John." The waitress came and dropped off the drinks, winking at Watson. Sherlock looked to his pink concoction of mostly vodka and pink lemonade, "Besides, these aren't so bad."

John shook his head, laughing some more and sipping his own.

Minutes passed, but they soon emerged to thirty minutes, then to an hour and a half. The music got louder and the drinks came faster. John, being the first to realize, that Sherlock doesn't have alcohol all that much. In fact, he can't remember the last drink he's had. The eventfully scary evening turned quickly into one of laughter.

"You see that couple over there?" Sherlock points out, his words slightly verging together. John creaks another giggle, "The fake blonde and buisness suit guy?" Sherlock nods, pointing between the two then to another table far from them. "The blonde is cheating on the suit guy with Miss model over here."

John darts his head, seeing the obviously tall brunette eye locked with the blonde. "They are les- Uh, lesbian? How can you tell?" John's fingers are tapping rhythmically on his thigh, the drinks he's had are overpowering his senses.

Holmes licks his finger as if to turn the page of a book and begins, "The blonde has texted somebody three times since they've walked in, and all those times, that model familiarized from the outlet posters has looked at her own phone each text. Ten minutes ago, the buisiness man went to the restroom and immediately his date recieved a drink. Complements from the model." His head turns back to Watson, and the gears are showable turning slower than before the fruity drinks.

"And he's utterly blind to it." Sherlock adds, his tone died down more. Watson furrows his brows and leans in, "Hmm?"

Holmes blinks, "Finish your drink. I have had far more than enough and need to sleep it off." His random gesture orders a pause from John who processes. "Something wrong, then?"

Sherlock stares to his own glass, he counts in his head how many he's had. "Six. No Seven. No, not right. Watson! John Watson..." He blinks more, eyes unfocused. He just stares at John until his hand reaches for his refilled hard lemonade and chugs it dry. John just looks on ahead.

A loud thump near echoes in the room.

Sherlock, still catching his breath, asks. "What in the heavens?" His head is turning but his eyes aren't looking. John is still looking as before when he speaks, "The buisiness man found out. He knows about _their_ love." Holmes can only seem to look at Watson, everything else just blurrs. John stands and takes him by the elbow, standing his slowly. He thinks that maybe they can make it to a cab if their eyes just keep locked.

One step, two steps, ten steps. And they are leaving the pub, leaving the screaming blonde, the crying model, and the infuriated buisiness suit guy. They are in a cab, finally.

"You know you are two people." John says flat faced. And Sherlock stops his radical blinking to assess his friend. "Am I?" John smiles, "Yes. You are a bit like the blonde. So secretive yet in such plain sight." Holmes laughs, laying his head back. "And who else?" His breath catches most of his words.

Watson licks his lips, "The model."

Sherlock closes his eyes, "How so?" John is still looking at the other, smiling idiotically as before. "Well, I guess it's just the looks. So pretty." He's joking which makes Sherlock go into a laughing fit. But he's also dead serious, which makes Sherlock go silent quickly after. John was so preoccupied with how much Sherlock has had, he didn't realize how many he's had himself. John is past proper decision making.

He moves his eyes from Sherlock's eyes to Sherlock's mouth. And from his mouth to that one stain of lipstick on his collar Molly made when hugging him, she was more than happy knowing he was alright. Then, back to his mouth. "Sherlock, I-" Another thing he failed to realize is his colleague's reactions. It consisted of staring samely at John's eyes and mouth, but instead of a lipstick stain, it was the bloodied knuckle he established when thrashing the deaf stabber into the hard concrete. It was almost heart warming. Then, back to John's lips.

Watson's sentence had no chance to escape once Holmes breathed a word against his. Or maybe it was a sentence? John can't decide, because time just had no meaning once he made the final act of closing the distance.


	3. Cab Rides to 221B

Deep somewhere in his mind, John expected Sherlock to jump back and restate his love of work. But Sherlock did no such thing. In fact, he did the opposite.

Their lips were pressing kindly on top of one another, not bothering to invade with tongue. But the tension was growing in the small cab. John has a problem though, he always has to find out what he doesn't know. And at that moment of facial contact, he wondered what that damn fruity drink tasted like. He risked it. As if licking his own lips, he snuck a taste into the wonderful mouth of Sherlock.

The detective gripped John's cheek, suddenly loving what he just felt. And John relished the taste. It was ever so sour and sweet. He welcomed Holmes' soft and gliding tongue as if he needed it. The kiss was no longer clean. It was ever deepening with a mixture of shared saliva and germs and everything Sherlock would normaly avoid.

_Beep Beep. _"Sorry to break this up, but-"

Sherlock pulled away and dug mindfully into his pocket, digging a good some of money out and thrusting it in the cabbies hand. "Here." He mumbled. His hand found the collar of John's shirt and his foot swiftly kick the cab door open. During no point had Sherlock or John looked away from each other or even dared looked at anything/anyone but _each other_.

John kicked the door closed once they were both standing and liplocked once again. It took a second but a bell rung in his head, "We just did tha- In front of..?" And comedically Sherlock shook his head, smiling and pecking a light kiss on his cheek. It was a test. That was a Hudson kiss. John immediately saw the logic in Sherlock's drunk mind.

No matter how twisted he may get, he will always be clever. "Sherlock?" He now blinked as Holmes did minutes ago.

Time skipped in patterns from then on. Like a strobe light. Memories of finding Sherlock's mouth again, finding his tongue, exploring the wetness of his mouth. The creaking steps, stumbling after one another. A fumbled key and squeaking door. Lips again. Now hands, more hands. Hands on clothing, hands unbuttoning, hands groping and searching. Voices yearning. Sweat dripping. Skin brushing skin and legs entangling legs.

Melodic. It was like an orchestra playing what it was rehearsing for months. And this orchestra has been eager to play for far too long.

* * *

The event. Sherlock and John had played their little game for hours, and weren't satisfied until it was properly over. With energy well spent, the drunk bodies took into a sleep. And it wasn't until another couple hours, still dead in the night, that John lifted his eyelids to see the porceleine skinned genius.

"Sherlock." John spoke, his words still tripping over themselves.

Holmes grinned, eyes still shut. "Watson?"

John blushed through a grin of his own. "And I am the buisiness suit guy."

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head, shocked to see his own hand playing with the hair at John's nape. "What do you mean?"

John finds it difficult to look at his eyes, his blush peeking through harder. "In the bar, in the pub. You said he was utterly blind to love. Well, I am the buisiness man and I am not blind. I can clearly see it. I've always seen, and no matter what I may say... I always will." It was a promise that didn't need to be said, but sounded good enough to do anyway.

"We are drunk." Sherlock replied with the best of knowledge. It was not a half hearted ignorance to John's plea's of acceptance, Holmes just couldn't think of any other way to best represent the situation. John laid back down, finding a spot for his head on his _friend's _chest.

It took only minutes of Holmes stroking through his hair for Watson to drift back into a blissed slumber. Then, seconds for Sherlock to succumb to the heart beating of John's neck on his chest that chanted for sleep as well.

* * *

_Is there a pain worse? I can nearly see the hangover and my eyes aren't even open._ John thinks to himself as he slowly stretches his arms out. He flutters his eyes open then close, rethinking going back to sleep with the morning sun blinding him.

_It is too early for thi- Wait. Where's my comforter? _He searches blindly for his familiar sheet but is welcomed by a warm, smooth expanse of skin. Before frantically opening his eyes and looking for himself, he tries to remember if he picked anyone up. But he does dart his eyes open and sees.

And he sees more. Every slow millisecond his brain connects the foggy dots, or what dots it can connect. It doesn't take much.

Because. There is Sherlock, his FRIEND, nude naked lying ontop the array of bunched blankets. And the blankets are Sherlock's as well. John drops his jaw when finally seeing that he is in Sherlock's bed! Does he dare scan himself? He does. John's eyes wander quietly down himself and he is utterly bare of anything. Only the thin sheet over one leg and covering just enough of his own nakedness.

_WHAT THE HELL!? _He screams inside, biting his tongue so hard he hisses. Holmes shuffled to his side, another part of his body John wished to keep secret. And he knows, he just knows it will be considerably difficult slipping away to his own room unnoticed. He knows Sherlock will find out. One way or another, no detail will go unseen.

John puts a warm foot to the cold ground, just moving that small bit lets him know another large detail of last night. It doesn't take a doctor to realize that he was the... um, _I was the bottom? _John takes another blow to his breathing, and he's nearly in shakes now. He spots his boxers happily on the floor and snatches them, standing and pulling them on.

"Watson." Sherlock's voice whispers behind him, stating his name in such a way John cannot decipher if it is panick or delight. But John freezes nevertheless.

"Holmes."


	4. Restlessly Awake

"I have been drugged. I have been assaulted. I have survived being locked in a cigarrette factory. John Watson, I have even made a living in this dulled world. Yet I have never woken up to _this_." The infamous or famous (however one sees it) Sherlock sat up slowly, taking in the regrettable sight inch by inch. That included taking in the sight of his colleague. This made John, who was still facing away, all the more uncomfortable.

"There is no time for this, sorry. I need to go." John continued dressing, finding random tid bits of his outfit from the previous day scattered around, his trousers curiously just outside the bedroom door. He heard a loud groan from his so called _friend_. "If you leave now, I promise you things will be worse when you return."

Watson doens't reply.

Holmes stands now, using the sheet to wrap around his frame, a decency John is at least used to. "_IF _you return." And he watches John pause momentarily, still facing away, then reaches for his jacket and paces for the door. Sherlock finds no sense of humour to the situation, and angrily strides behind him.

"Oh, I am very sorry Doctor. Was all this my fault? I do take responsibility, but a happening like this cannot be pinned to one person!" He sounded childish, which made the _Doctor _finally turn and face him. His facial expressions, breathing pattern, gestures, even shifting of his weight made Watson look like a wreck. There were clear signs of guilt, cluelessness, curiosity, and hurt covering him like tar.

"Just be quiet, alright? This has never happened to me either." It was a sentence that required immediate silence after. Sherlock held his tongue, watching the mind of the helplessly stupid John recollect whatever mind he had from last night. John's body finally gave way into the couch, sinking in while his hands masked his face.

But the great and all knowing Sherlock felt out of place. He needed to tell Watson something, just one thing. To prove that John has indeed been in a situation like the one that happened last night.

He licked his lips, thinking it would help his words come out cleaner. "I- I... I." Nope, helped nothing. Oh, it did give him John's attention again. Sherlock takes a deeper breath now, forming his words before they exit so he wouldn't pull another tongue twist like he did with Irene Adler. But does it matter now?

"-Have never." His large breath was a waste. Most of the air spilled out before getting a noise in. But the look on Watson's face almost jumps at him, he knows he got the gist of it. He wanted so desperately to join Watson on the couch, to give his weak legs a break. That would be a 'no' anywho.

John tilts his head side to side, then sadly shakes his head. "No, no no no. Holmes, you canoot be... Be serious. I have to leave, now. Again, I'm sorry." He stands quick, pushing his arms through his jacket as he goes for the door. Sherlock catches his arm, though, just to get a word in.

"Stay." Sherlock is now pleading. Never in his wild life has he ever felt this used or elated. And elated is a stretch, because he also has never felt this complete and full. Seeing the person who put that there leave is tearing the larger than life character down limb by limb. Then, he lets go, releasing his friend. He watches him button his jacket, put shakey hands on the door handle and then... "He's gone."

* * *

It was a cold, hell frozen day that matched the mood on nearly everyone. Sherlock spent the evening showering, cleaning, but avoided all contact with any of John's things. Anything he moved, touched recently, breathed on, wasn't cleaned. So, in all reality Sherlock spent his time pretty much drawing circles around John's stuff as if to say 'This right here. That is his. That is something completely different from my things.'

Childish? Yes. To him? No, to Holmes it was a reasonable way to deal with losing his virginity. Yes, the thing that led Holmes to believe he was capable of being emotionally unattached, was stolen. His mind now ran through situations where he could lose control over his feelings. Like with the Hound, like with Irene, and with John.

But sometime between his small meltdowns, Mrs. Hudson came in with tea. The thing with Mrs. Hudson is, she usually asks before going through any trouble of making anything. She usually waltzes in with a warm welcome. And though still she was a warming touch, she didn't speak. Sherlock thought instantly that it was John's doings, that he told her to check up on him. "How dare he." He hisses into his palms.

Mrs. Hudson pats a hand to his back and sets the tray down. "Deary cheer up. John did nothing but tell me you weren't yourself." She sat at the table, looking strangely at the old cup of joe from last morning. It was John's.

Holmes sat across from her, "Yes, but I am never myself. What was different about him telling you this, now?" His finger tapping on the table turned her attention back forward. She smiled, tilting her head. "John wasn't himself either, darling. I didn't get to offer him any breakfast before he 'bout ran out!"

Sherlock felt silly for feeling this way. Especially now. This was a silly mistake and a silly- "Wait, Mrs. Hudson what is today?" He became frantic for the date that slipped his mind. "Monday. Today's Monday, Sherlock." She sounded worried, feeling up for his head. "What's the matter?"

He forced a smile, "I have a date."

* * *

_**A/N: Does this suit you guys? I have other ideas for a Sherlock fic... It's sort of different. (Holmes has a kid he doesn't remember "creating" and she shows up and finds Watson. Could be a he.) Yeah, different. This is the cleanest fic i've ever written I think. So, review please so I know if you guys want more. Which I do have more to write:) Thanks Sweets!**_


	5. Molly at the Diner

Sherlock was strapped in his usual gear. A long, dark blue trench coat with an equally dark red scarf. He darted out of the cab and scanned the area of the building Molly was waiting in. Being late wasn't something Molly wasn't used to, though it gave her heart a pulsing start once she saw him in the door.

"Here!" She got his attention, and her mouth did that little thing where it couldn't stop smiling. Sherlock secretly let his own pulse die down, his adrenaline had gotten the best of him. Losing another friend was not on his to-do list. She seemed happy, though, saving a seat in a perfectly placed booth.

He sat down, speculating in his mind possible threats. "Sorry I did not get you first." He looked up from a side view, pursing his lips in anticipation. Molly threw a hand up, "Oh! No problem. I know how you can get... busy. Um." Her nerves were caught. Holmes reached for her hand and brought it to the table, "And I am sorry I am late." The small flick of his tongue he does with certain words makes him lose Molly completely.

"No... problem." Her bottom lip edged to her mouth and she was caught in the revolving door called Sherlock. If she pushed one way, he was on the other side preventing her escape. He smiled, holding his hands to himself now. She breathes a let down sigh, sad her hand isn't warmed by his anymore.

"Molly, I am in a bit of a pickle." He's looking down now at the tea just put down in front of them. Molly snaps back into reality. "Ew. Again? What is it?"

Holmes prepares his tea with sweetener but does not drink it, not yet, he's in 'case' mode. And this one was hard to say. "Me." He begins but stops to mumble a "no no no, that can't do" to himself. Molly doesn't look away, not once. Holmes presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, "John and I-" a hiss escapes and he's threatening his own words now with "He'll be horrified-" He pauses.

Molly takes his hand now, reasurring him. "As much as I'd like this to be just us, I can't have you worrying about something silly. Now, please just tell me what's on your mind." She monologues. And Holmes takes the small amount of time to deduce one thing, 'When did I become so comfortable with Molly to just let her know private occurances?'

Something is screaming at him inside that it is worth the risk. and he inhales.

"Say a friend of mine ends up having a sexual encounter with his best pal, his life line of sorts. And now the whole ordeal has broken that friendship up?" It had to be said, and it had to be said in a way Molly would understand, and it needed to be anonymous. But, HELL, it was hard.

"Molly?" He whispers when she doesn't utter a reply. She shakes her head slow, "You invited me here to be with him."

Holmes blinks twice. "What?" Did he miss something?

She huffs, "Last night. You said we'd go out for tea today, so you could be with him that night!" She seemed to be talking to herself, but her voice level was nothing private. Holmes licks his dry lips, heaving for some normalcy, "I wanted to see you, Molly! You must know this." Down. Down hill. Things were going down hill.

"I know that you must love John more than me! The hangover in your eyes just screams about the sex you had last night. Please, delight me with an explanation. Later. I have work to do." Okay, now Sherlock is piecing together that using 'a friend of mine' and 'his best pal' wasn't too secretive. And another friend is lost. Well, John said he'd come back at least. Right?

* * *

Two cab rides later. One back to baker street to see if John popped up and the second to the hospital. And Sherlock was searching high and low for Molly. Guilt usually never takes place like this, but today it was throbbing. He checked the morgue, and despite the full room, none of them were the charming female friend. Holmes goes to the cafeteria, and again a room full of the wrong people.

He takes close attention to where he walks now, secretly hoping Molly wasn't avoiding him altogether. But he gets nowhere, and sits in the hallway pulling at his hair. "Love is one thing. Sex is another." Sherlock seethes through clenched teeth. His hands dig in his pocket and he takes his phone out.

He has no clue who he wants to call, but he wants to call them so badly. He closes his eyes, dialing blindly one person who may still speak with him. _Ringing ringing... _"Hello?"

Sherlock grins sadly, "Lestrade!" A composing clearing of the throat.

"Sherlock? Another case? Where?"

Holmes speaks as if not hearing his words, "I just wanted to say hey."

Greg spazzes, "YOU? SAY... HEY?! Where are you? Were you kidnapped?" He shouts then whispers.

"Not at all, I'm not stupid. I'm in the hospital, just taking a stroll." Sherlock loses concentration on the phone and soon finds himself listening closer to the girls bathroom.

"Okay then, hello Sherlock."

"Bye." _click. _Sherlock hangs up and discards his phone to edge to the girls door. He heard a noise. A crack of the throat. He knew it must be Molly. Nobody but Molly has ever sounded so... like herself. Greg was left speechless on the other line, but that could wait.

Not long passes before Sherlock has made entrance into the very vacant bathroom. His deduction was right, however. Molly was in the farthest stall, not even heard the restroom door open or close. Teetering, he slips into the stall next to her, still going unnoticed.

Until the very squeaky door rattles alarming the crying girl.

The crying stops.

"Who's there?" She asks, she's nervous, Sherlock wonders if this has happened before. "I said, Who's There?!"

Sherlock sighs. Molly knows that sigh, "Holmes." She states his name. "You hurt me." A very kid like voice tears out and Sherlock can relate.

"I know. And i'm sorry."


	6. Glasses of Wine, Hers and Mine

It was a short lived conversation. For Mister Sherlock, it takes time to understand the wrong he's done to people. Molly has been subject to alot from him. And no matter how many times he's said, "I could not be any more sorry.", she grunts with ,"Yes, you could."

That revolving door was jammed shut, still. Holmes was leaning up against the wall when another nurse walked in blindly. She didn't see the man. Molly clears her throat. The nurse looks up and gasps, "You shouldn't be in here."

Sherlock begins walking out, dragging Molly behind him. "And neither should you. A patient has just arrived and needs assisstance."

The restroom door swings open, and just as the same door shuts with Sherlock and Molly out, the nurses buzzer goes off. It reads, _patient with shot wound in Intensive Care._

Molly is shoving Sherlock's grasp of of her. And he is mentally slapping himself for not realizing a crucial detail, "You are upset."

"No, I am delighted." She excersizes her sarcasm.

"About something other than myself." He banters.

Molly fixes her hair, looking off. "It doesn't matter."

Holmes tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, his feet parallel to hers. "It does, Molly Hooper. It. Does."

Her hands drop but are caught by Sherlock's. "I never want any trouble, especially with you. So, for the sake of this all, nothing is wrong. And it doesn't matter." She wonders if he will back away from a possible case for once, and hopes boundaries are his thing.

Sherlock drops his head, "I will see you Wednesday, Molly."

* * *

Sherlock has no where to go but home, to the flat. Rain made its dreadful appearance as he stepped out of the cab. "Great."

Mrs. Hudson wasn't there, so that meant no afternoon tea. "Yay."

And the door was unlocked to the first floor, "Exciting." He remembers locking it and shutting it close.

But those minor inconveniences weren't the best part. It was John sitting at the table, sipping a glass of visibly wine, and snickering at the paper. "Oh, hell no."

John bolts up, knocking the chair over and shifting the table with his thigh's. "Sholmes!" He fuses Sherlock's full name together and adequately spills his drink on his sweater. The taller man watches him, seeing how each second he becomes more uncomfortable. "Johton." He does the same name mash up.

And for some reason, this isn't as bad as Sherlock planned it to be. Seeing John again, that is. They break out into a laugh. John sits back down, Sherlock takes a seat in front of him, the same seat he was at when talking to Mrs. Hudson.

A weight has been lifted for both, but it's just a matter of time. "Have you thought about it?" Sherlock asks. John grabs a towelette and soaks up the wine from his shirt. "I have. And I think it is idiotic to fight over." He looks at the other with the classic 'John' face, "Have you?"

And Sherlock hasn't. All he has managed to do today is clean a little (which he notices John has put away most of his things), and make Molly cry (which wasn't all his fault). "Yes." He replies without thinking. His hands find the wine glass John has been sipping and sniffs it. John is still wiping down the wine, "Then, everything should be sett- What are you doing?"

Sherlocks is still eyeballing the glass. "Shh." Then samples the liquid with a small sip. John blinks twice, hard. "What did you JUST do? Do you know how wrong that was of you to just... share my drink?!"

Holmes chuckles, putting the glass back to the ring on the table it sat on. "Let me ask you, Watson." He licks his lips. "Do you feel dizzy, nauseous, or weak?"

John shakes his head. "I haven't had that much, clearly." Sherlock looks to the bottle the fluid was originally poured from. "Clearly, you don't recognize poison when you drink it. Out of all the cases we've had with consumned toxins, you aren't careful?"

John stands, looking worried. "What did I drink, Holmes? What did you put in my drink this time!" Now he looked a little mad, and balances with hands on the table top. Sherlock lets out a giggle, "Not me. It was the man you bought the wine from. The Scot, I believe? But, details later. Right now you need to drink a glass of water."

John is staring down at the floor, eyes wide and trying hard to focus. "Mm'kay." He mumbles into his shoulder. Things are becoming hazy for him, noises are getting quieter and far away. He can't, for the life of him, remember what he was doing there.

Sherlock was already pouring a cup of water, and trying his hardest to hand it to John, but his friend couldn't grip it. "Tssk, Watson you are being difficult. You need to drink it!" he fights back with John's motor skills. "T-Trying." John squints. Sherlock gives up on handing it to him so goes to his mouth, coaxing him to open it.

The moment he thinks John will obey and begins pouring, "Watson! I am back and it's raining!" Mrs. Hudson knocks at the door. Sherlock turns his head towards the knocking and John loses consciousness altogether, falling backwards, eyes rolling back, body going limp straight to the hard floor.

Thump.

* * *

_**A/N: Hey Sweets! How is life going for you guys? Great? Great. Love you.**_


	7. Hospital Holmes

It is so bright. I can't see! Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson?! I cannot hear either of them. I feel kind of numb, and my feet are freezing. Sherlock! Turn down the hellish lights. Please? And. And Make the pain just stop. For once, listen to me you stupid idiot. I need a blanket, I need sleep, I need this to stop. Where the shit are you?

Wait, I'm not even talking, am I? God dammnit. I'm still cold though.

"Mr. Watson, you need to stop straining and lie down." Who's voice was that?

"It may be hard coming back, but you have to listen to your doctor." And who's was that? Who is speaking to me?! And doctor? I must be in the hospital. I have that at least.

"He's convulsing, doctor." _Beep beep beep beep_. "Cradle his head!" My head. My head? Convulsing? No I am not. I feel fine despite the- The... Oh dear. My chest is on fire. My arms and legs are in flames. If I get out of this, I will personally have Sherlock's skull on MY fireplace. 'Close friend' my ass.

"There, let him calm down." _Beep...Beep...Beep. _"He's losing consciousness, doctor." _Beep...Beep...Beep... _"Let him. He needs sleep." Losing what? Oh, I feel numb again. And I still can't see. Dumbass doctors. And I'm sleepy, which sleep sounds amazing right now. The light isn't as bright, it's getting darker, softer. Sleep.

...

...

"John." A familiar and annoying voice. "John!" It's Sherlock, hurray.

My eyes ease open, getting used to the lights again. Blurrs of shapes come into view. "Sherlock." And of course, my voice cracks like a school boy. "John, you didn't drink the water." It's my fault now? Thanks. "Ass." Things begin to come into sight. The first is Sherlock's smartass face. Then, Molly. "Here, I didn't know if you liked candy or not." She sets chocolates beside me.

And I get a good look of where I am.

"The hospital. Holmes took me to a hospital." I grab the chocolates and look at the lable. "Problem?" Sherlock is sitting crosslegged in a chair to my right, taking the chocolates from my hold. I hiss at him, "Damn you, slick fingers." Molly chuckles to my left.

I smile up at her, then turn back to the near murderer. "Yes, problem. I can't recall a time you couldn't handle a situation like mine. Why did you take me here?" Sherlock throws the chocolates back at me. And he efficiently ate a good portion. I look at him with a full mouth. "And you eat a sick man's food."

Sherlock laughs despite his full mouth. Then swallows. "I took you here because I wasn't so sure I'd help you in time. And I wasn't really hungry, I just wanted to 'test it'. It'd be horrible to be poisoned while IN the hospital." Molly looks to Sherlock and sigh's, "I bought that. It hasn't been out of my sight!"

I take in a laugh. "You were hungry, admit it. Even sociopaths need food every now and then." I get a look at myself. A very unflattering hospital gown, an IV stuck in my left arm, and I feel another tube sticking from my neck. Sherlock mentions something about food transport, but I ignore it. "What is this?"

Molly looks a little graver, "You were out for a couple days at most. Since you couldn't really get up and move arou-"

The detective who was situating in his chair cut her off, "Your body went in and out of consciousness for fifty hours. In that time you went into five convulsions caused by xenon poisoning. It wasn't the scot who sold you the bottle, it was from a broken bulb at the warehouse the wine was being stored. Someone didn't close it properly and resealed it. That needle in your neck drops melatonin in your system every time that machine suspects you are going into another siezure, forcing you to sleep. When you are asleep your body can clear itself of any toxins much quicker. Thus keeping you. Alive."

I put on a faux smile to my friend then looked to Molly. "Thank you so very much, Hooper. You are more than a friend right now." A ticked off Holmes lets his mouth fall.

"Well, that was interesting." She braces a helpful hand on John's arm and waves to Sherlock. "I should go, really. People waiting, people wondering." John nods, letting her go with ease but Holmes isn't that gracious. "Family down? Another boyfriend I should warn you about?" He's smiling but accessing everything at the same time. It's a mask he constantly puts on.

Molly stutters, looking back to me shaking my head. "Yes. I should get to them, him. Bye!" She smiles, pulling her purse snug on her shoulder and bounding out.

I let my head fall to Holmes' direction. "You do know that isn't nice. Messing around with people's personal lives? It's hurtful." And I know that Holmes knows it's bad. "It is only for her own good. Something is bothering her, it isn't right."

I push the button on my bed to call a nurse, "You aren't right, Sherlock. Cut some slack on the poor woman." A nurse walks in, but Sherlock doesn't notice. He's thinking.

_Molly has had no relationship since the psychopath. I mean Jim. Her body has gained at least five pounds, and considering her menstruation cycles and active lifestyle, it is far too much. Possible stress. But from what? Her clothing is neat, too neat, nothing is out of place and there are no wrinkles. No clues clothing wise. But facial? No makeup today, hair not looking it's best. So it's safe to say she's been doing home remodeling or cleaning. Ironing, washing, polishing but nothing to herself. So, with all of this, what is wrong with her? What is it?_

"A catheder, a damned catheder." I hiss, gaining a wierd look from Holmes.


	8. Gauze

Three hours later, John is let out from the hospital. Another hour later, including a stop for chinese food, they were in the flat. It was very wet still outside, and the humidity was almost too much. This made John a little more irritable than usual. Seconds after coming in, he was cursing around.

"Please, we have a very nice landlady downstairs." Sherlock insisted he stop.

John made a wave of the hand, dismissing his plead and searching for the wine bottle. "It's still here? Why didn't you get rid of it?" He was holding it, shoving it in Holmes' face. Sherlock took it away, "No time."

"No time? What do you mean no time? I was out for two days, you said!" Watson kept speaking as he made his way to the bathroom, attempting to get a good look at the hole in his neck made from the needle. Holmes followed him, throwing the wine in the trash and making way. "Exactly, no time."

John was digging in the drawer for a bandaid and looked at his friend cluelessly, "I don't understand. Where were you?" He bandaged his 'neck wound' and dropped his hands, "You were with me in the hospital! Weren't you? I knew you could care for someone." Sherlock was at a stand still, firstly because John had poor bandaid placement even for a doctor, and secondly because he didn't know how to respond. He did care for John, but did he 'care' for John? Was it odd he followed him to the bathroom? Was it shameful of him to lie to John about being comfortable with everything?

Well, he did know one thing. His shoulder hurt worse than it did when the knife went through it. "Ssst. Yeah, you've caught me." Holmes does this little dance as he tries to shuffle away. One hand covering his long-had injury. "Now if you don't mind, I have a case to get back to."

Watson sees him, it's obvious. "A case? You haven't had a case in a week. Unless your talking about the Molly case. And if you are, I am ready to stop you now." He was on Sherlock's heels, reeling him like a fish. Sherlock turns, "A different case." and he turns back, pacing around the flat. John tosses his hands up, "Alright. I give up. What is the matter with you?"

And Sherlock is yelling internally, _He's got me. He knows I'm not okay since that night. I am done. _"Nothing. Why do you ask?"

John puts on an unreadable face. "Your shoulder. It is infected and you think too highly of yourself to get help." And Sherlock makes a sigh like no other, a ton of weights have been brushed off. "Fine. John, fix my stab wound? Thank you." He bolts back to the bathroom, fetching whatever supplies he'll need. "You're welcome."

* * *

He's still thinking about it. His eyes, you can tell when he rebels. Even as I am scalding his puss-filled chest hole with hydrogen peroxide, he's still going about Molly's buisiness. Just look at him, all proud of what he's found out already, and yet scared of what he doesn't know. "Stop it." I grouch at him, holding medicine down with cotton.

"You don't even know what you want to to stop." He sounds annoyed, I should slap that cocky frown. "I do and it is beyond time to drop it. Now turn your shoulder over here." I scold him again, and clearly I'm not in a gaming mood. He's persistent though. His eyes are yelling at me that i'm wrong. My hands wrap the bandage snugly over his shoulder and I tap it sealed. "There. Good as new."

I barely get a foot away and I hear, "You're wrong, you know." A turn of the heels and he continues, "About knowing what I was thinking about." His teeth snicker in a, "Wrong."

"What do you mean? Just tell me now unless you want to be Mister Secrets." I fall carelessly on the couch, his look going from the ceiling to his hands to the door. "Sherlock!" I insist on him. And the man of many mysteries brings a knee up to his chin, leaning on it. Not looking at anything in particular now. "Night." He mumbles into his clothing. "Bed... Me and.. And."

He's struggling, hardly making anysense. "Look, Holmes. I know you've probably skipped quite a few meals, missed a night or two of sleep so I will just take the initiative to say goodnight. You need rest, your face looks nothing of refreshed. So, how about you tell me what's on your mind when you are?" I smile, and begin walking to own room, watching his face of nothing turn hard and cold. "Sleep. Well." He whispers, bringing both legs into his chair. My door shuts.

Now, what he doesn't know. What he doesn't want me to know in all actuality. Is. God. ...Is I know what he's been over analyzing. Which, it makes one hundred percent sense to still be messed up about it. Who in their right minds would? Me. But, truth be told. I am not over it at all, either. Knowing that I did something so personal with someone so... Sherlock. To even think about taking a person's, virginity, and not giving a damn. How must the other person feel? Wrong, I feel wrong and hateful and ignorant. I am an idiot.

"stupid."


	9. Past It

"John?" I screamed at my flatmate and well respected partner. I was at the kitchen table, fiddling through nonesense to keep me occupied. John was just waking up. The screech of his bed when he sits on the edge noted me of this. I could hear his faint, fumbled and dry throat wheeze out, "How did you know?" Like always, he was already full of questions.

I tipped a cap of sulfur in a cabbage base, turning the solution bright blue. Just as suspected. John's bedroom door creaked open by a slight and his hiss at the lights turned to quiet swears, also just as suspected. Yes, I kept the lights on. A restless night due to worked up feelings, the bastards, left me with no other choice than to do something worthy with my time. And possibly, I had every single lamp and fixture on just so the doctor would wake up and join me.

I didn't answer his silly question, I quite enjoyed the way he angrily stomped about the place, stopping with a grunt by my side. "Breakfast is on the stove." I waited for him to look curiously to the heated oven, "And coffee is on the counter." His head then turning slightly left to the coffee pot. He sighed and grunged for a mug, "It is the middle of the night. Why are you awake?" Another good question.

"I never went to sleep. Didn't need it." My hands glided the microscope to my viewing pleasure, scoping the looks of the base and acid reaction. John's own reaction in front of me, now, sounded. "Let me guess, transport?" I nodded, laughing at his repititious joke. "Do eat, though, John. I wouldn't want it to go to waste."

Another angry sigh and he stands, his eyes searing past me. Clanks of plates then the sizzle of bacon and the scrap of the fork on the plate and he was seated in front of me. He forged room for his mug and plate on the cluttered table. He was still looking at me, though.

"What?" My voice smoother than I thought.

John scoots his chair in, "How do I know this isn't poisoned? Or some of your science chemicals haven't made it's way into the food?" The way he doubts me is charming, because I know he'd eat it even if I said it was. "Trust me." I simply say, giving him a glance then going back to my work. My predictable work.

He begins eating, another correct suspection. It gets quickly quiet then. It's an understood silence that brings me to deduct the one truth that John knows. How, though? I am reduced to nothing but mental questions. Just like John himself. And speaking of, "Sherlock, you're staring." He's looking again, and it hurts a little, being seen.

"It seems I was." Funny how he noticed my mind blanked, leaving my eyes to burn a hole through John's coffee mug. I laugh it off, clicking another slide into the microscope. The silence ensues us again, and I know it was looking for both John and I. Bite by bite, John has finished his meal I made just for him. I knew this was going to happen, and why didn't I bother to tell myself about this?

"Look, now, no time will be right to bring this up..." Oh god, John's talking, he's bringing up that god aweful night. The alcohol, the acidicness of it all. The words, meaningless words I probably ran that led to it. This talk, I've never had one so intimate. Strange. But, was it aweful? I remember the hangover being the worst part besides seeing John leave so freshly. But the sex? I remember waking up, feeling different. I felt, new.

"You. You are wrong." I point my finger at him, and he's giving me that look. Shit. "Holmes. Listen, it may be hard, but we'll work through it. None of this is normal, but that's what makes us human." And he is speaking to me of humanity? Please! The Greeks would fall together in orgies, completely unphased, yet I am sitting here. I am sitting, right here, smarter than those dimwits, shaking with fear they would never possess. Humanity? Nonesense!

"You said, and I quote. 'We'll'." I stand, shifting passed my chair and nailing my hands down on the table. I've caught something.

John quivers his lip, "Yeah. You and I. How mean of me would it be of me to leave you in the dark?" His breath is accelerating considerably. "I give in. Just ask me whatever deep and concerned question you have and I'll answer truthfully." I made way to my chair, perching on it and eyeing the doctor. His face softens, and it is ever so clear it is hard for him also.

He circles the chair until he's comfortably sat in his own, "How do you feel?" I could answer with anything, such a vague asking. "My heart is weary, my hands sometimes shake, and I fear I am developing anxiety attacks." My mouth did that, not me.

Watson formed word after word with his mouth but they never came out. So I then ask him, "And you?" My eyebrows lift. He drinks a breath and taps his hands, "Not much better." The seat he took couldn't keep him still, so he looked around anxiously then began pacing around. "Have you had any relations before?" He looks at me in a way that stings.

If the truth must be visible, then yes, I was a virgin. Sex wasn't something I've ever done. And John has. This is what keeps me from going totally insane. I wasn't in the hands of a whore or stranger, it was John Watson, my friend. If we can just get past the awkward phase, then i'd be fine. We'd be fine. "You were my first." BUT! I had no intentions of making this worse. Those few choice words rewarded me with the most horrified expression from the doctor. He was falling. Metaphorically.

"Sherlock. Sher- Sherlock. How do you really feel about this? Inside?"

Like I want to encase that feeling I woke up with days ago, like I need to marry the person who put it there, but it was you, John. I need you, I want you, I am physically broken without you. Love me and hold me and charish what we had. Lord knows I am slipping without your hand holding me.

"I'm past it."


	10. Another Amazing Chapter Title

Watson bends at Sherlock's chair, eyeing him like a child. "Oh." For Sherlock to be the one above in height, he sure does feel tiny and immaculent. Watson drops his frantic face to concentrate every atom on thinking about Holmes. Every breath, every blink doesn't go unthought of until he smooths his hand beside Sherlock's. "And would you like help?" Holmes tilts his head, unsure of what he meant.

John staggers his fingers closer and closer to Sherlock's, then intertwines them without much asking. "Since you are past it, I mean. I can help you." Holmes is utterly unmoving despite his deep and long breathing. John stands inch by inch, drinking in the time, hovering more-so over the detective. When standing becomes an effort, the doctors knee finds room on the other side of Holmes. It was a sight. Their heads were almost touching at the forehead, the invisible breath mingled smelling of coffee and tea Sherlock must've had earlier that day, John's leg stretched whorishly wide... It was too slow, and in contrast, every breath seemed exceedingly fast.

"Help me." Sherlock tested a sudden motion with his legs, finally sliding his feet to the floor. His hands gripped onto John's sides hard to accomodate for his lengthy legs as he lifted him gently. John fell slightly forward, catching his weight with his hand on the couch behind Holmes' head. Their cheeks flushed. His hold on John's sides lifted but didn't let go. They were almost statue-esque again. Watson's other leg lifted parallel to the left, his knee going to the free side of Holmes, now straddling him. "Don't worry. I will." He whispered into his ear, speaking to him as if he were in pain. Then, he sat slowly, sliding closer into the lap of Sherlock and putting his hand once holding him to his neck.

Their hands were clasped so tight, the heat was rumbling throughout the room, Sherlock panted a plea. "Just hold me." His voice was straining against itself, and his hands that were once on John's sides were now trembling. The doctor sat back momentarily to assess his situation, it wasn't just scaring Holmes, he was scared as well. "Your anxiety." A lightbulb flashed and he was on the case. Yet, he was ordered to do one thing. Which he did.

His hands weren't occupied with Sherlock's body anymore, they were on course for his face, holding it in place, urging Holmes to look him in the eye. "Shh. You are fine." Sherlock hadn't realized he was whimpering softly, being consumned by the hold of fear and confusion. He turned his head into the hand on his face, shutting his eyes shut and counting in his head. Counting always worked, except for now.

"Quiet, calm down, look. Look at me, I'm not hurting you, taking advantage of you, or threatening you." John shifted to a stand on his knees again, "Here, I'll get up."

Sherlock's hands still shook violently, and he trembled still, but he couldn't let John leave so soon. His arms lunged for John's waist, running up his back and pulling him sickenly chest to chest, then lips to lips. Sherlock's face was plastered with pure fear, with eyebrows furled and mouth hung open panting against John's. He didn't mean to be rough or harsh, he was just frightened to be left again. And expecting Watson to push him away, or protest him, he was pleasantly surprised.

"Mm." John made a faint hummed noise into Sherlock's mouth, then began toothlessly biting at the lips presented to him. Holmes' jitters faded into desperate touches. His arms tightened a hug around John, nibbling back into the tongue and fleshy lip. The sound of clothing slipping against itself ran louder with mixed noises of panting and smacking lips.

But as before, it infiltrated Sherlock's mind. It was just too much, the feeling, the person, the uncontrolled aspect. Holmes shot his head back, leaning it on the chair, his hands settling on John's waist subtly, and mouth hanging slack. "Stop." He ushered, just before Watson made way for the exposed white skin on his neck. He snapped back, holding hands up to clarify him stopping. "This is wrong, isn't it?"

Holmes brought his head up, out of breath, "You think this?" A look of disappointment and John's mind is sent reeling, "Gods, no." They share a look that needed no words explaining, "I don't know." John looked to his right and delicately placed his hand over his, "I hope not." Sherlock sleepily flips his hand over to intertwine their fingers, massaging John's hand with his thumb. "Don't leave me." He begged again, and it felt like the thousanth time he's mentioned it tonight.

Watson leaned his head to the cradle of Holmes' neck, burying his face into the collar and squeezing his hand around Holmes. "I couldn't if I wanted to." He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. Sherlock noticed the drop in heat, and the dying pulse rates, then his eyes shut also. He played around with John's hand in his for a minute, then moved his hand to John's short locks. Brushing them side to side, leaving tingling patches of warm on the man's scalp. Before he knew it, Watson was breathing an even path that suggested sleep. Holmes felt his pulse raise then fall again, a small burst of adrenaline sounding off the enemies. He was with Watson, for now, and that's what he needed.

Right behind sleep. Sherlock's head fell ontop of the one asleep on him. And did the same.

* * *

_**A/N: I know they fell asleep fast, but hey, it was barely morning and neither had good sleep so... yes. And I have a plan still for Molly's problem, it will come later. But WARNING, next chapter I plan on orgasms, so if you don't like don't read. I won't change the rating just because both will be clothed. Trust me, okay sweets?**_


	11. Looks Are decieving

_**A/N: Next chapter will probably be the near M rating content. I'm doing more of reactions and Molly this Chap. Thank you, Love you, stay strong my sweets.**_

* * *

Sherlock startles awake making a noise of pain, though he wasn't in any at all. He was still scared though, but for what? And he blinks, the mid morning sun beats through the windows, then squints. He was doing something last night, but what? Oh, John, right.

"John?!" He nearly yelled. Recalling very vividly the finale of the 'talk'. But the man that consoled him wasn't in his lap, or even in the room. Terrifying, heart skipping. "I'm sorry, John. Sorry!" He screamed into the blank of the room. When no reply came up, Holmes sprinted up and to his phone, looking for a text.

_Meet me in the morgue, please. -Molly_

He ran to his room, pulling off his yesterday clothes, reaching for fresh slacks and a button up. If he couldn't find John right now, maybe dealing with Molly's matter will loosen the weights on his ankles. His hands shook but soon enough he was dressed and heading down the steps in fast, determined leaps.

The text was sent thirty minutes ago. A cab didn't pick Sherlock up for five minutes. The actual ride to the morgue was an astonishing forty minutes with traffic and stop lights. Holmes considered walking, but it was a hot day. Two minutes to run in, and two seconds until he saw it.

It. Because describing was a little odd at the moment.

Sherlock blinked, and then blinked harder. And finally, after finding it no illusion, he decided to deduce the horror of the situation. A man, lurking in the corner. Two bodies on the examination tables. They were dressed in fine suits. The man in the corner was also in a fine suit. The ground dirty and covered in streaks of water. But that very well could be for another reason. Wait, the bodies. "Dear Go-"

The man danced slowly to light, smiling a ridiculous and familiar smile. "Don't worry, your friends aren't dead." Sherlock turned his head again, looking at Molly and John's bodys flat on the tables. They were breathing, faintly, but breathing. "Who are you? We've met, I'm sure." Holmes was now waltzing protectively around the man, not wanting him any closer to the people he cares for most.

"Us? No, we've never met before. But I am of close relation to another one of your... friends?" Despite Sherlock's attempts, the man snuck his hand to run down Molly's leg. His grin was near Joker. Holmes growled, "No more games. What form of poison or sedative did you inject them with? I can see the puncture sights." He formed a barrier inbetween the man and Molly.

Yet, the tall, black haird male was on his way to John. "Do I really need to tell you? Sherlock Holmes. Look at the symptoms. Easy peasey." His hands went to fix the hem of John's pants, caring especially how they were placed.

Sherlock thought fast. They had a shallow breath, a light gleam of sweat was covering both from head to toe, the injection sight was smooth and almost invisible. But their skin, it was off colour, just off their peachy tone. "You mixed morphine and another anesthetic. That is all I need to know. Now, I must have your name." Persistent.

"Good, good. The right questions. Who am I? What did I do to them? But what you aren't getting at is why I am here. Care to elaborate that for me?" the man with too much expression for a face pulled a pocket knife out, opening and closing it wantonly. Sherlock was over edge, "You like to get me off subject, nice try. I guess you are here because I either locked up or accidentally killed your relative? And by looking at your obvious features, I am almost certain I've had a rile with this person. And before you decide to threaten to cut my friends, I warn you that looks can be decieving."

The man chuckled, running his finger over the blade, "And what looks am I to be looking at?"

In milliseconds, John was shooting up, stabbing a punch right to the side of the maniac's neck. He kicked the knife out of the man's hands and shoved his head down hard onto the cold steel table. "You might need to re-evaluate your medicinal measures." He whispered coldly into his ear. Sherlock threw a shot of who knows what at John, telling him to give it all to the black haird man. Then, Holmes was attending Molly.

"John, why isn't she waking up?" It was a dumb question he inherited from John. "I don't know. I just remember hearing your voice as soon as you walked in the room. I was awake, you must've known. But, I guess she was already here. But, Sherlock, he is Moriarty's brother!" He chunked the empty shot aside and let the body loosely fall to the ground. Yet, he didn't see Sherlock mentally go blank.

Holmes sat beside Molly's body, thus waking him again from his brain lapse. "Did he text you as well? Did you get a text from Molly saying to meet you here?" The doctor ran to Molly's side also, testing her pulse, fanning her. "No. You don't remember? He came into our flat, got the needle in my neck before I could open my eyes, much less say a word." He paused to look up at Sherlock, "How could you not of known?" John sounded hurt and astonished himself.

"Is there a reason I should have?" He played dumb. Maybe last night was a dream, a mirage of some sort. Being humiliated by his only true friend was the last thing on his list. John shook his head, going numb of any expression, feeling, or breath. "Molly. Dear, it's us. It's me, Doctor Watson. You need to wake up." John's hand was on her neck, moving it side to side.

Sherlock felt guilty then. An emotion he usually ignored. But, this time, he needed the guilt. So, he closed his eyes, and listened. Listening to the lights flickering, the electricity hum in the walls, John's breath, his own breath, the air conditioner, noises of people from upstairs... But he dulled all those noises out to hear only Molly.

Her uneven breathing. Her airway swollen, wheazing. Her toes curling in her shoes. The obvious migrane she must be dealing with. Her insides trying to process the excess medicine. Her heart beating. Her heart's beating? _THUD... THUD...THUD... _but listening closer, very close, there was a.. _thud.. thud.. thud.. thud.. thud.. _Very rapid and shallow.

Sherlock jolted his hand and latched it to John's arm. John jumped, holding his chest, "Jesus, man." He swore. Sherlock hissed at him, snake like and all, "Go get a nurse. A doctor. A gurney. An IV. Anything. Anyone. Everything. Everyone. Go." He sat still until Watson let the light click in his head, then dashed out of the room, his squeaky shoes peeling out.

Holmes stood then, stripping Molly of the unecessary fancy get-up. His hands cradling her head. "It is alright, Molly Hooper. You and the baby will be okay. I know you can hear me, just know that he will never hurt you again."


	12. Snogging

Molly is safe. Sherlock is cowering in the corner of the flat. Mrs. Hudson is coming up with tea and cookies. And I am trying my very best to wrap my head around what happened. It was like he blocked it completely.

"Boys? Hot tea and fresh cookies!" She was smiling happy, Mrs. Hudson was always the one to brighten a dull day.

But back in the morgue, it was as if he tore the memory away like the information with the solar system!

"Hello, Hudson. Please, join us." I look over at Holmes who isn't moving, "Or me, for that matter." She sets the tray down and eyeballs us.

"Okay, but only for a penny's worth. I have brownies baking on ground level." She sits at the table, looking back and forth curiously from me and the sociopath. I pour her a cup, "Thank you for bringing these up, is there an occasion?"

Seriously, Sherlock is being childish, he doesn't give a damn about feelings apparently. I've tried confronting him about it once, I can't do it again.

"I should say so, but now. I'm not too sure." She's sipping her drink, looking confused now. "What do you mean? Speak to me." I ask her, then she stands, setting the drink down. "Come with me, downstairs while we chat. I'll be checking the brownies." She's speaking suspiciously, so I follow her out of pure wonder.

There are no brownies. Never was. And now, she's leaning on the counter, looking into my eyes for some sort of clue. "This morning, I walked in. I had my own thoughts that maybe it was always that way between you and I never noticed. But my main thought was something happened that night. I look at you now, and I am back considering my first thought!"

Sherlock Holmes, the man you can count on to have a word put in, just goes blank. Really Holmes, grow up.

I run my fingers through my hair. Mrs. Hudson had walked in on Holmes and I pretty much cuddling in a chair. "Look, it is nothing. For two seconds I thought myself we had- uhh- something, but it turns out he's forgotten all about it. We are nothing, and nothing happened. It's fine." I smile fakely, and she sees through it. Her hand comes up to brush my shoulder. "Nothing is a strong word. And even I don't think Sherlock is strong enough for it." She turns around to the sink.

She's right, yet wrong. So wrong. I look at her begin to wash the already clean dinnerware in the sink, and I wish I could boast about her simplicity. I turn on my heels, making way up the- seventeen, I believe- stairs. And before I turn the knob, I take a deepened breath. And I go in.

Sherlock is there. No, he's more than there. He's nearly running at me! Wait, he's saying something. What? His body nearly takes mine down to the floor. "We did have something." I finally understand him, but it's too late to react properly because his tongues down my windpipe before I can choke. His hands roaming me, pressing my hard back onto the door. "We did." He said it again, but more like he solved something. I let him take advantage, it's nice having someone want to rip you to pieces.

And by that, I mean lustfully.

"We should talk." I said back. But I made no effort to pull away, I actually shimmied us to the ground where we snogged a few minutes for. Happy, I'm happy. Because seconds ago I thought he was avoiding me, but no. No, he's literally dry humping me. Oh dear lord, he's really getting into it. On top of me, grinding down and skimming my ear with his teeth, I can hear his worked up breath.

I rut against him, my hands entangled behind him holding him tight and close. High school, we are in high school and this is our gay experience. Well, seconds, no third, gay experience. Yeah, we still should talk. "You're thinking. Stop it and swallow my tongue!" He wasn't kidding, if I weren't so turned on it would've been frightening. I held on for dear life then. Taking his mouth in and on mine while he ground his overly clothed erection over my equally covered one.

Then it happened. Like being hit by a fucking bus I let myself go in my jeans. It was all the better when Sherlock was driving over the cliff too, nearly crushing my hip bones with his weight. And it was done. So fast yet so satisfying.

"I shouldn't of done that." Sherlock nipped at my ear, apologizing tantalizingly. I sniffed, "No. No, it was good. Nice, you should do that more." He made no effort to get off me. Heaven.

"Wait." Damn heaven can't last. "We're supposed to go back up to the hospital. They're going to interrogate his brother." I tried to get his eyes to look at mine but his were still lust blown. "He's not going to wake up for another two days. We have time." Again with the ear nipping and sucking.

My hands unravel from his back, "Molly, what about Molly? She's probably awake, and scared. Alone." I made him grunt in protest, "Ugh, right. We will just have to clean up, then." My eyes roll back into my head, he's rutting again. Satanist.

"So soon?" I mummble against him. Then Sherlock grins against my neck, "She does need us though, John. More than ever. Something isn't right." And mood ruiner. I can't possibly be aroused with sadness on the mind. So I nod, feeling him sit back slowly. "And when we get back.." He winks at me.

* * *

_**A/N: Molly is preggers. But we still don't know her story. John and Sherly are somewhat together. And Moriarty's brother is much like Moriarty. Did I ever tell you that Moriarty sounds like Boyardee? Seriously though. Love you Sweets!**_


	13. No Longer Pretty and Pink

When John and Sherlock get to the hospital, they find that Molly has checked herself out. The first questions coming to Sherlock's mind is, "How?" Because no doctor would release an ill pregnant woman who is clearly traumatized. Much less send her home without proper care. Strutting behind Holmes, is Watson who is fuming. He still doesn't know about her pregnancy, but is upsetted by the same standards as his colleague.

They hail a cab, planning on making sure the poor woman is okay. Then, they need to question the blood of Moriarty. The sickening brother.

The two dash into her place, caring not for knocking or ringing. Her living room is all shades of pink and creme, predictable, and her bedroom door is covered in photos of old friends and family. Plus new ones. John knocks the door open and peeks into the unpredictable room. It isn't pink or white or something light coloured, it's full of deep reds and blacks and hard woods.

Sherlock is making deductions already. "She's depressed. Something happened with either her love life or sleep routine. You can tell by the heavy decor and colouring." He makes a quick scan of the room when the bathroom door opens, and out pops Molly in her big, fuzzy robe. "OH! Gods, you scared the daylights out of me."

She just took a shower, but paid no attention to putting her hair in a towel. This makes Holmes think harder, and Watson hits him on the arm for it, sensing his thinking. "You weren't at the hospital." John tries to say but Molly is looking confused, "Why are you here?" She begins oddly cleaning around her room, but there's nothing to clean. Sherlock again is going into critical thinking mode.

"You were just drugged by a villanous being's brother, and you _were not _expecting us to check on you?" Holmes questions her, and he smiles a forced dull smile because he's just solved the little riddle. But his smile is short lived, because he just solved Molly's riddle!

"You should just leave. And lock that man up." Molly's words make Sherlock grimace, but John is doubly confused by both people's reactions. He tilts his head, "What's going on here?" Another 'John' question. Molly shakes her head, "Nothing, I said leave please. If you want to talk, I will be at work the day after tomorrow." She persists them to go, and the Doctor actually does begin to walk out when he noticed Sherlock isn't behind him. "Holmes, come on."

Sherlock is still looking at Molly, a little shocked and aw'd at her really. "Watson, I will meet you outside. This will only be a moment." John opens his mouth to reject, but sigh's it away. He knows he must'nt argue. "Fine, one minute, Sherlock." And he darts out.

Molly lets out a breath, "You know. I know you know. You have 'the face' on." Holmes nods, "Look, Miss Hooper. Being in a morgue isn't the best place for an unborn baby. I suggest you temporarily move to another part of staff." He cares for her still, and Molly finds a smile at this. "You are right, a morgue isn't the best place for a baby." She is looking at him, through him.

Holmes looks back, "...But you are keeping your position." He knows her too well. Molly drops her smile, "Yes. Now, please go attend the Moriarty buisness." She waves him away, sitting on the bed. Sherlock doesn't move, "I know who the father is, Molly.-" Her head pops up. "-You and I both know." He takes a few steps to the door.

She's purposely putting the baby in jeopardy for a reason. Holmes knows this. All the evidence is pointing to one explaination. Obviously.

Molly raises her head quickly and her eyes are full of those things called tears, "Go, please. Not now." She waves him off again. This time he obeys, taking precaution to slip out of her place while her head was in her hands. Sherlock meets up with John who is just hanging up his phone. "Who was that?" Holmes asks. Watson walks to the curb, holding a hand up for a cab, "Old friend. Just chatting. We're going back to the hospital, right?"

Sherlock goes to the cab pulling up, "Right. Where an infamous man is being awaited on his famous reply." They get in. "I know why he did it. I just want to make sure _he _knows why." John is given a strange look from the cabbie in the rear view mirror. They exchange a look of confusion.

Holmes is on the case.

* * *

In a part of the hospital not even Molly would recognize, lies the man. He is coming into consciousness. His hands and feet are bound to a hospital bed stripped of any comfort. Two nurses and a doctor are required to stay in the room at all times along side three police. They've dealt with Moriarty before, and having another isn't ideal.

When John and Sherlock enter, the dazed man is laughing softly, eyes shut closed. He could sense who just arrived. If people gave off ora's, this man's ora was literally fucked up. Those were John's words. Also John's words, "You don't talk unless asked to." The man's laughter stops and his eyes open, looking at the ceiling.

"Wasn't talking."

* * *

_**A/N: I want to make the (as of right now nameless) Moriarty brother a little bit of a smart ass. Maybe this can be funny. Also, you guys are awesome. Love you sweets!**_


	14. Second Winds

"Just shut up." Sherlock lays back on the wall, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He's thinking about the consequences this man deserves to go through. A policeman steps up, handing John a file, then steps back into place.

"His name, Sherlock, is James also." John was flipping through the few papers, "Mother must've not been too bright." He cracks a look at James, wishing his insult took root. Sherlock drops his hands, watching the man pull on the bindings.

"You aren't a psychopath, Moriarty. I can tell. A man like you doesn't go killing for fun. So, why did you drug them?"

The brother stops fighting and finally turns his head to give both John and Sherlock a taste of his frosty eyes. "You know why, loon. MY DEAD BROTHER can't speak for himself. Which is a good thing, really, he was always picking on me. But he didn't deserve to die." Those same eyes gave an annoyed roll. Sherlock cocks his head. "Why didn't you kill them? Why was Molly targeted? Hmm?"

John looks to Holmes, questioning softly with, "Molly targeted?" after what he just heard. Sherlock holds a hand to John and waits for a reply. It takes a few minutes until James can properly place his tongue, "She got away scratch free last time, if you can remember. Even Kitty couldn't find the heart to break up with him, but Hooper could? Sense made none." The way he popped the 'n' made nearly all the staff cringe.

John threw the file into Sherlock's arms, "What did you do?" He ran to threated James, then turned his head back to Holmes, "Sherlock, what did he do?" He was out of the loop and it made John angry. But not even his colleague could find the heart to tell him. Not here. "Look. James, this is your confessional. I know what you did, God knows what you did, you know what you did. But if you don't say it out loud, and pay for your crimes..." He droned off, dropping the file on the floor.

James laughed once more, "Prison. I like it. Plus the people are always so nice." He turns his head to a guard, "Don't you think?"

* * *

Another hour of arguing with the maniac and nothing. The only reason Sherlock and John left was because he passed back out, the drugs having a second run.

"What did he do to Molly?" John was pacing very quickly beside Sherlock. They were walking the streets home this time, both needed time to walk everything off. Holmes shrugged. John got louder, "WHAT did he do?" They both sped up walking, taking out their frustration on their feet. Sherlock huffed, "I'd rather this not be something everyone knew. I only found out because I noticed, and I wish I hadn't. But it was necessary."

John was finding it harder to keep up, "Sherlock! I am not everyone. I care for Molly also, she is a friend. I'm finding it very odd you can't tell me!" Sherlock sped up further, "Take this up with Molly, it is her buisiness anyway."

John stopped, halfly because his legs burned like a mother, and partly because he's had enough. "She won't tell me, you know that. But if you want to help her, I can also." He watched Holmes slow down, then stop by a street sign and lean on it. "Fine. I'll tell you." John was finally sighing in relief and began walking to Sherlock. But he looked to John, "Meet me at the cafe!" And sprinted into an alleyway much too fast for Watson to process him leaving.

"You Fucker."

ten minutes later, and three cafe's later, John met up with Sherlock. He wished he had specified on which one, would have saved leg work. Holmes was sitting dashingly at a booth, sipping coffee. John sat across from him, "Tell me, then." He finally replied.

Sherlock laughed, scooting over a tea he previously ordered for his colleague. "Drink." And John did.

"For the sake of her privacy, I beg that you tell nobody but yourself. And do nothing about it. Alright?" Sherlock was serious then, completely motionless until John said an, "Okay, agreed."

Sherlock prepared himself a minute, taking in a few breaths to compose what horrible story composed in his mind. "Molly met James a few weeks ago. Just like Jim in IT, he put on a facade mask. Molly, in the first few moments of meeting him, was baffled and charmed. Until he." He verbally stumbled, looking down at his coffee.

John asked, "He, what?" Sherlock continued softly, "He threatened her, told her if she said a word about what happened, then she would pay. He raped her, John." It was those subtle details that unfurled the full story, the complete 'Murder She Wrote'. And it stung. "That twisted demon, I will rip him a new one!" John was immediately put on edge.

Sherlock held his attention, "You promised me you would keep quiet."

Watson slammed his hand, "This is Molly Hooper we are talking about! The nicest girl on the planet and you are telling me to not help her?"

Holmes nodded, "Yes. This time, yes. It's what she wants of us, and I think it is for the best."

John sat more comfortably again, "Oh. The best? For whom? Her or everyone else? That child shouldn't exist." And for even John's liking, those words were bullet holes. It was just a baby. An innocent child.

Sherlock stood, slapping money on the table on walking out, "I will see you tomorrow." He uttered, flipping his collar up and walking into the quickly cold night.

John sat there, swearing at himself and dancing curses into the air. He watched many costumers walk in and out until a waitress came to the table, taking the money up. His eyes followed her, watching her go to the counter then turn around, weirdly. She came back. John raised an eyebrow, "Was there not enough to cover the bill?"

She shook her head, "You must have mistakenly put this in with the money." She awkwardly handed him a small slip of paper in the mix of bills. John took it, reading her name tag closely just incase this would end up being another case to solve. _Mary_. "Thank you." He smiled at her, and she sheepishly grinned back, standing there until John did a double take.

Odd.

He unfolded the small paper and read, _P.S. The busgirl with the shorter blonde hair likes you, if you ever get tired of me. Noticed last time we had brunch._

John looked back up, eyeing the visible staff and saw the girl with the shorter blonde hair. It was Mary. "At least she's not a threat."

* * *

_**A/N: P.S. Sweets, I love you so much. You guys are my everything. So far this summer I have cleaned up after tornadoes, went to at least ten funerals, and worked nearly everyday except Friday. So what crap kind of story I give you (sorry i could do better) is what I manage. But I love you and that's all that matters. **_


	15. Scary Morning

Sherlock woke up in his clothes from the day past. He was awkwardly curled in a ball, fitting snuggly in a creme coloured couch, cradling a pink pillow in his arms. It was sunrise, and he was in Molly's place.

He could hear a faint stirring coming from her room. Sherlock could visualize her sitting up in her bed, stretching and yawning. Then, going to her bathroom. He stood up as well, his legs feeling a little more sore than usual. Must've been from running with John.

The sink began running over where Molly was, and Sherlock took the liberty to start a brew of coffee. The sink stopped, Molly walks to her dresser and begins changing. Sherlock stops listening and sits at her cloth covered table.

Minutes pass. The coffee is done, and Molly is walking out. "It's a little early to be up and going, isn't it?" She grabs the sugar and pours both herself and Holmes a cup. He coughs up a reply, "Never too early, Molly. And I thank you for letting me in last night."

She grins back, setting his cup down and taking a seat herself. "Anytime." Her hands wrap more tightly around her mug, "But what was it? What happened with John?" She clearly understood there was something specific going on between them, but didn't want to press it. Sherlock drank, "I suppose it's deservant of you to know my secrets if I know yours." He began.

Molly put on a face of 'I didn't mean it' but Sherlock stopped her. "It's fine. We just disagreed on some things. He was just worried about you, and I wouldn't let him act out on his rage. It'll be fine though, as long as you are." He slid his soon empty cup to the middle of the table, towards the baffled Molly.

She took the cup in hand and stood. "I- Um. Yes, I'll be okay. But, it's just... Would you like more coffee?" Sherlock shook his head, saying no. He couldn't help but look at her while she walked off. Her belly was very much showing, well, more than usual, and her gait was wider. Pregnant.

"If you need to say anything, do anything, or need anything from anyone, I can be that person. I hope you know that." Molly stops, setting the cup in the sink and turning to lean on it. "Actually, I don't."

Holmes tilts his head, "Excuse me?" Molly jumps a bit, "I don't know if you'll be there half the time, Sherlock. The other half of the time I'm not sure you notice me at all. And what would I say to you? I'm unrightfully pregnant? Help me? But you couldn't really help me. You don't help people like that." The second or maybe third time she's let her anger be thrown at him.

Sherlock nods, standing very slowly and thinking very intently. "I'm trying Molly. All I know right now is I feel very sad for you, I _want _to help you, I wish I could do all these things. But I'm not normal, am I? I'm trying, Molly Hooper. It's hard, but I'm trying." This is upsetting him more than it should, this wasn't the first time he's been told who he was.

Molly stutters something but throws it out the window so she can pace a walk to Sherlock, thowing her arms around his waist and pulling him in for a hug. And he understands this. Sentiment is a difficult subject, but he can understand it. His arms wrap around her nimble body.

"You are a douchebag. But you are my douchebag." She laughs into him. It's awkward but nice.

* * *

John is in the flat, waking up as well, feeling his mind slowly grasp at what happened last night. "damn it, not again." He swears, and he can here Mrs. Hudson faintly telling him to quit the swearing.

He's quick to get dressed, but has to undress once he realizes he smelled of dried rain and smoke of all things. Another twenty minutes, and he's pacing out the door, on a mission to find Sherlock.

He half expected him to be hiding back in the flat, but decided he was already out so no point in going all the way back. His fingers punch in numbers, randomly calling everyone he knows until he gets to Molly's number.

He puts the phone up to his ear. Three rings. Then, "Molly speaking."

Thank god. "Thank god you answered. Have you seen Sherlock?" There is a fumble at the other line, a deep male voice then a cough. "Hello, John." It's Sherlock.

John wishes he could throw the phone down and smash it in hopes his friend was inside, but he doesn't. "The hell are you doing?"

"Visiting a friend who is in need of cheering up. What are _you _doing Mr. MeMeMe."

John sighs, hailing a cab. "Looking for you. I'm on my way to Mollys, don't move." He orders him to stay. Another fumble on the other line then Molly speaks again, "I would hurry up. He's adjusting his scarf and coat." John hangs up.

It's aggravating, but predictable. So many times John rethinks his newfound relationship type, not-really-existent thing he has with the man. The man. Vaguely he remembers having the same conversation with Adler. If Sherlock would have really died, really jumped to his death, John knew he'd regret it. It's a win lose relationship he has. A 'You can't live with him, you can't live without him' _thing_.

The cab stops. John runs out. Sherlock is halfway down the street. John sprints through sore muscles. John runs into Sherlock. they fall to the pavement. John whispers... "Never leave me again." Sherlock smirks, "Don't disagree with me." They kiss. Sherlock leans in. John pulls back, "Don't set me up with busgirls." Sherlock shakes his head, "I wasn't setting you up-" John cuts him off.

Sherlock has a secret.

John has a secret.

* * *

_**A/N: SECRETS. That aren't really secrets. It's pretty guessable. But hey my sweets, I really hope you guys are having fun! **_


End file.
